War, my father once told me, never changes. It’s the same for every generation of men (and now women) who fight it for those of us who remain here, waiting.

He told me this when he was about my husband’s age now. He told me that the men at the VFW — the veterans of my husband’s war, Vietnam — saw Daddy only as an old man, w/ his big belly and his receding, greying hair. They didn’t see the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, the multiple Purple Hearts or all they cost him.

My father was lucky. He came home with only a big divot out of one leg, bad memories, and a fistful of medals for valour. My husband also came home with no limbs missing, no horrific external injuries. But neither man was ever the same. This my father knew.

I don’t know what to say to the several Oklahoma families who lost sons this past month. Only how very sorry I am. How much I hate war, and wish that there would never be another one. So instead, as we near the anniversary of the ostensible reason for these most recent wars, I offer this image, honouring both a lost soldier and his most faithful mourner. Sometimes grief is as pure and searing as flame. This image reminds me of those griefs ~

Britton Gildersleeve

Britton Gildersleeve is a 'third culture kid.' Years spent living on the margins - in places with exotic names and food shortages - have left her with a visceral response to folks ‘without,’ as well as a desire to live her Buddhism in an engaged fashion. She’s a writer and a teacher, the former director of a federal non-profit for teachers who write. She believes that if we talk to each other, we can learn to love each other (but she's still learning how). And she believes in tea. She is (still) working on her beginner's heart ~